Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Pistol-whipped ❯ The Beginning and an End ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: I'll just do one from the start. This is an original story that belongs to me <.< None of the characters or organizations exist, I just pulled them right out of my ass. I hope you like them =p

Prologue.

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Her room was the usual;

 

Softly lit with orange light, books splayed out on the work desk, photos of friends and families covered the walls and were in the many photo frames that dotted the bedroom. So many happy memories, so many loved ones. She spent much time with all of them, held each and every one of those people close to her heart. They treasured her as well; she was a beautiful, caring person. Her parents were proud of her; her younger brother looked up to her. She was the ideal girl, smart, modest, innocent. A good role model. Her room reflected that perfectly.

 

He could see her perfect world crack and shatter around her while she lay face down on her pink covered bed. He couldn't help but smile.

 

And fuck her harder.

 

All she could do was whimper, sob quietly in the small hell he had made for her. He noticed her clutching the bed sheets tighter, knew that they were damp with her tears. Her blood would join them soon. He shivered when he heard her screams, muffled by the pillow in her face. He felt the skin on her hips break beneath his nails, his grip. Her body shifted now, up and down, with the force of his thrusts.

 

He fucked her harder.

 

He plundered her, tore and what he could from the inside out. She felt fire inside her body, liquid heat dripping out of the place they were joined and staining red on the sheets. She took no pleasure in his groans, only hope that it would all be over soon. He would finish with her and leave. She didn't want to protest or fight him, she didn't want to die.

 

So she let him have his way.

 

She turned her head to see him. Get a good look at him. She would need an accurate description for the police. He smirked when he met her eyes with his; his pitch black hair ran down his face, left a short trail on the back of his neck. He needed a haircut. She took note of his features, his tanned skin and washboard torso. He was a very good looking guy. Except for his eyes.

Now, How to describe them?

 

Hell.

 

She couldn't help her own eyes from going wide, the depths of his orbs were consuming. Dark, so very dark. The black rivaled the colour of his hair. She was drawn in, like a galaxy to a black hole, into those deep, dark eyes, where oblivion awaits. There was so much pain. So much pain. She could see the agonized faces of a thousand tortured souls, trying to claw their way out of the fiery pits. She caught a glint in his eye and felt like her heart would stop. Was it magic? Some kind of witchcraft? No. Just sin.

 

Just hell.

 

The slapping sound of his sweaty thighs on her ass spurred him on, as it always did, and her pink-covered bed hit her bedroom wall, as they always did. His rosary - his most treasured possession - jingled and tapped against his chest. The dark cross hung low from black beads, it soothed him to know that it was there. It always calmed his skyrocketing nerves, helped him last longer. He knew he needed to put on a good show. God was watching him.

 

Watch me break another of your angels.

 

He followed the indent her spine made up her back and made a face of distaste when he saw brown hair all over the place. He imagined it was black, pictured silky, raven tresses running down her back, running through his fingers. He wished she would lift her face from the pillow, despite her features that argued with his taste, and let her screams be heard by the world. Let her screams be heard by God.

 

Listen to your angel, listen to her scream.

 

He released one hip from his violent grip and clutched at his cross. He wrapped the rosary beads around his hand; wound the necklace up to his collar, and fucked her harder. The wind went from her lungs in a whoosh and he could hear her teeth clacking together. The bed sheets tangled around them as she thrashed her arms about, but nothing could stop the pain. The piercing sensation of being torn in two, over and over. She tried to move away from him, cried out that it was too much, but he pulled her back with that vice grip and powerful arms, and raided her core. Her cheek was getting irritated from rubbing up and down against the pillow, and her vision was going cloudy.

 

Just let him have his way.

 

His nails dug into her deeper suddenly and she bit her lip to hold back the scream. Her throat was raw from the abuse; she couldn't scream anymore. She could only lay there as the monster with eyes of hell took her from behind. She could feel his sweat dripping onto her, the shudder from his body. He was close. He would finish soon.

 

Then what?

 

She didn't want to die. She was too young, too loved. She had so much to live for. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes and soaked into her lashes. She hadn't wanted to lose her virginity like this. Not in the room she spent her childhood in, not like this. The picture of her parents flashed in her mind and she screwed her eyes shut to will it away. She didn't know what would happen to her, only time would tell. She felt him jerk out of phase and knew he was very close. She would find out soon.

 

Her virgin walls squeezed him like never before. Her body was so fresh, so untouched; he lost the last of his control. He closed his eyes to the onslaught of sensation as his seed filled the rubber coating on his cock. A toe-curling feeling of euphoria seized him, exploded behind his shut eye lids and left him light headed. He didn't collapse onto her, didn't get that feeling of exhaustion and pure fulfillment that most men describe. That feeling he had yet to experience. The feeling of security in another's arms, the feeling of acceptance, the tenderness of the moment. He didn't find tenderness in any of this. Call it fucking women, screwing them, making love - or what ever the hell you wish. He had never felt it with another.

 

He found tenderness afterwards, and would find it now.

 

He dismounted her and left her to weep on her bed. She watched him absent-mindedly, waiting for him to leave. She saw him bend over to his dark pile of clothes, his face and hands disappearing from view. A quick flash caught her attention and she found herself staring into the barrel of a gun, and the long silencer attached to it. She couldn't help herself, she looked into his eyes. She saw her perfect life flash before her.

 

And he saw the bullet flash into her face.

 

She flopped, lifeless onto the bed she had grown up in, the pictures on her wall fading from view. She felt the bed sink as he sat on the bed beside her, and the last thing she saw was the red pool by her head, slowly growing, soaking into the mattress. Her vision was the first to leave her, then her sense of feeling. She could still taste blood, she could still smell sex. In a few seconds, those senses, too, left her and abandoned her cause. The last thing she could do was hear.

 

And the last thing she heard was the soft jingling of his rosary and the cross that tapped against the beads.

 

He stroked her cheek, his twisted version of tenderness seeping into his pores like the blood that seeped from the hole in her head. Her eyes were still open wide, the brown of her irises paling in colour. Another one of her features that went against his tastes. Her appearance was too pure, too angelic. He had the perfect woman for him hammered blatantly into his mind, and no other would measure up. He pulled his hand away and tossed his used condom into the bin by her desk. His work was done, and God had seen it happen.

 

But now, he needed a shower. He needed to get some sleep.

 

He had school in the morning.

 

 

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To Be Continued...